


The Nightingale's Song

by parapraxis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 13:20:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9125464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parapraxis/pseuds/parapraxis
Summary: When Mycroft's teenage daughter runs away from boarding school and begins to live with him full-time, the two cannot seem to see eye-to-eye on anything.  Frustrated, Mycroft turns to the only person he knows who might be able to provide some insight.  The more time Mycroft spends around DI Lestrade, the more conflicted he feels about events from his past, and the more uncertain he becomes about the future.





	1. The Nightingale's Return

**Author's Note:**

> For Katie.

Night had fallen over London, bathing the city in a multi-coloured spectrum of lights that emanated from buildings, street lamps, automobiles, and shop windows. The moon, pale against an inky sky, went mostly unnoticed by the city’s inhabitants as the Great Bell rung in the midnight hour. 

The black sedan was waiting when Mycroft Holmes emerged from his office, having spent more than 16 hours tending to a crisis that wouldn’t keep until morning. Much like the crime in the city, those that were quietly in charge of keeping the cogs of England greased, rarely slept. Now that the day was finally done, the only thing Mycroft wanted was a soak in a warm bath, and bed. He rarely admitted defeat when it came to his own basic human needs, but tonight...biology was winning. He was exhausted physically and mentally.

“Home,” Mycroft instructed the driver as he slid into the back seat of the sedan.

The car pulled away from the curb and easily merged into the sparse traffic, taking the familiar route that would eventually deposit Mycroft at his doorstep. No sooner had he sank back into the buttery leather upholstery did he feel the vibration from his mobile against his chest. Reaching into the inner pocket of the dark pinstriped jacket, Mycroft retrieved the offending object. The display alerted him that it was a call from Scotland Yard, and he sighed wearily before pressing ‘accept’ on the screen.

“What has he done this time?” Mycroft queried without preamble.

“Hello to you too,” the imperfect inflection alluded to the fact that the voice did, in fact, belong to the man he expected was calling. Detective Inspector Lestrade’s unpolished way of speaking tended to paint him as uneducated, leading those who didn’t know him to underestimate his analytical abilities. Both Mycroft and his younger brother were guilty of that on numerous occasions. 

Before Mycroft could spare another thought about misconceptions surrounding Lestrade, the Inspector continued, “Actually...I’m not calling about your brother. I found a young girl wandering about the scene of a crime earlier tonight. Smart as a whip; could give Sherlock a run for his money.” 

“While that is certainly fascinating, Detective Inspector, perhaps you ought to phone her parents, as I doubt this is a matter of national security.” Mycroft could only feel mild annoyance at the call, failing to see how this matter was relevant to him in the slightest.

“I _am_ phoning her parents,” Lestrade said, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Her name is Adara Orrington; she claims to be your daughter.”

Mycroft fell silent, a slight grimace creasing the lines of his face.

“Mycroft?”

“I’ll be right there, Inspector. I would appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

“Of course.” There was a note of understanding underlying the obvious mirth the man found in the matter, but Mycroft ignored both sentiments as he hung up.

Leaning forward, Mycroft spoke only two words to his driver. “Scotland Yard.”

As the car turned around at the next light, Mycroft phoned his assistant, the only living person beyond Sherlock who knew of Adara’s connection to him. “The nightingales are nesting in London early this season.”

It was code, of course, but Anthea was well versed on the codenames Mycroft had for all of his family and their associates. He had no doubts she would easily discern his meaning, and take care of the matters he was silently ordering. 

The driver steered the car into the underground parking garage, used only by the men and women employed by the MET, and those like Mycroft Holmes who held top level security clearance around the globe. 

Lestrade was waiting outside of a secured door in the parking structure as the car pulled up alongside to let Mycroft out. The Inspector was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers as if trying to physically restrain his excitement of learning about the details surrounding Adara. 

Before the inspector could speak, Mycroft was swift to dam the flood of questions. “You need to know nothing beyond the facts you have already obtained.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade practically deflate before the detective pulled a swipe card from his pocket to gain them access thru the secured doorway. “You have a fourteen year old daughter, and you’re not even going to tell me how it happened?”

“Correct me if I am wrong, Detective Inspector, but you have a daughter yourself, do you not?”

“I do; about the same age as Adara, too.”

“Then you should be well aware of ‘how it happened.’” Mycroft raised his eyebrows expectantly, meeting the russet coloured gaze of the other man, and silently warning Lestrade not to question him further.

The inspector heaved a weary sigh and slid the identification badge through the strip reader. Indicator lights turned from red to green and the sound of a lock opening signaled they were clear to enter. Lestrade pulled the door open, holding it for the aristocratic man, who entered without a word.

“You’re lucky I was the one who got the call for the case,” Lestrade touted as they moved through the barren hallway. “Any other detective--”

“Yes, _thank you_ , Gregory. As always, I am in your debt.” Mycroft was unaccustomed to anyone having any sort of leverage over him, and Gregory Lestrade now had both Sherlock and Adara to hold over him, should he ever choose to call in his favour. 

No other words were spoken as the two continued through the maze of the underbelly of Scotland Yard, up an elevator, and along another hallway until they finally reached an interrogation room where a uniformed officer was standing guard outside the door.

The guard acknowledged both men with a nod before moving off to resume other duties. Lestrade punched in a code on the door lock and Mycroft heard the slide being retracted.

“I’ll give you two a moment alone,” Lestrade offered, this time with complete sincerity as he opened the door to let Mycroft in.

When Mycroft’s gaze settled on the figure in the room, he was met with the defiant ice-blue glare of his teenage daughter. 

“Father,” Adara’s greeting was almost a challenge. “This might be the first time you haven’t sent one of your minions to come and collect me.”

Mycroft exchanged a long suffering look with Lestrade before entering the room and closing the door behind him. “As I recall, there are still three months remaining in this term at school.”

“Your deductions are as sharp as ever,” she retorted sarcastically. 

“Why are you in London, Adara?” Mycroft’s voice took on a hard edge, his patience waning. 

Adara slumped back in the metal chair, crossing her arms and breaking eye contact. “You only care because I’ve ‘embarrassed’ you again. Your ‘problem’ has returned and is getting too big to sweep under a rug.”

“My problem?” Mycroft furrowed his brow, struck by the words. 

“Oh, I’m sorry; I’m only your problem when we’re actually in the same postcode. The rest of the time I’m the problem of the Governors at Badminton.”

Mycroft sighed, “Get your things, we’ll discuss this later.”

“Whatever.” Angry tears welled in Adara’s eyes, but she rose from the chair and moved to the door, pounding it with the palm of her hand. When it opened, she looked back at Mycroft. “I wish you’d been the one to die instead of mum.” The words were spoken in a hushed voice, but they reached Mycroft’s ears all the same, cutting him like a thousand shards of glass.

He said nothing in return, not giving Adara the satisfaction of knowing how deeply she’d hurt him, and he watched as she turned and marched out the door passed Lestrade. His eyes slowly met the inspector’s, expecting to find amusement, but instead he found veiled empathy. “And I thought Sherlock’s teen years were unbearable,” Mycroft attempted to jest, uncomfortable with the knowledge that the detective was privy to more than anyone ever needed to know. He moved towards the door, but Lestrade blocked his exit. 

“I’m not exactly a prime example of fatherhood myself, but if you ever need advice...or just want someone to talk to…”

“Thank you, Gregory, that will _not_ be necessary.” Mycroft inwardly shuddered at the thought of having parenting heart-to-hearts with Lestrade. It wasn’t that he particularly disliked the other man, Mycroft simply abhorred the idea of intimacy at any level, especially with someone he had no familial connection to. 

“You have my number, if you change your mind,” Lestrade said before turning on his heel and leading Mycroft towards the release area where Adara was collecting the belongings she’d been brought in with.

Mycroft eyed the overstuffed knapsack his daughter shouldered with a look of disapproval, “Planning a backpacking trip through Europe?”

“It would be better than being with you,” she snapped back.

“Right,” Lestrade interrupted the sniping, standing in between the two and shaking a finger at Adara, “I don’t want to catch you wandering about any more crime scenes, alright? It’s dangerous and no place for a young lady.”

“Don’t worry, sir,” Adara told him evenly, slipping her other arm into the strap of the knapsack so that it sat squarely on her back. “You won’t catch me.” 

Mycroft gestured for the girl to precede him towards the elevator that would eventually deliver them to the underground garage, following as she marched off in front of him, chin in the air. Adara stopped suddenly, swinging around to face the detective.

“Inspector Lestrade?” She waited until he looked at her. “About your suspect… He’s a white male, between 25 and 30 years old. He’ll be left handed.”

Satisfied, Adara continued down the hall. 

Lestrade gaped at Mycroft, looking at him as if for confirmation, but the elder man merely shrugged. “She may only be fourteen, Inspector, but she is still a Holmes.”

As he and his daughter made their way to the waiting car, Mycroft couldn’t help but wonder at this latest display of rebellion. Adara had run away from the boarding school in Bristol only twice before in the last decade. The first time had been when she was six. The Governors at the school had told him she had been homesick, but he dismissed that excuse. Adara hadn’t lived with him full time since she was three and old enough to be enrolled at the all-girl’s school. How could she have possibly been homesick for a home she barely knew?

The second time she had run away, Adara had been 10. When the school reported her disappearance to Mycroft, after he had unloaded a barrage of disparaging remarks about their inability to manage their charges, Mycroft had enlisted the help of his brother to track Adara down. That had been when Sherlock first learned of his niece, and the circumstances that had put the child in his custody.

In order to buy his brother’s absolute silence in the matter, Mycroft had promised to butt out of his brother’s affairs. He wouldn’t question his drug use, he wouldn’t directly interfere in the man’s daily activities, he would simply let Sherlock be. This agreement didn’t stop him from conscripting others to keep an eye on Sherlock. Were it not for Lestrade and John Watson, Mycroft might actually have to adhere to his word without amendment. 

When they had tracked Adara down three days later, they found her camped out in the cemetery where her mother had been laid to rest. Adara had begged Mycroft not to send her back to the school, but he knew that it would be the best place for the girl. That was the last time Adara would return to London between terms. She had opted to remain at school during summers and holidays, and the only correspondence Mycroft had with his daughter were the reports from the school with her marks. 

“I’m beginning to think this disappearing act is going to be a serial event every four years,” Mycroft observed once the two were ensconced in the back of the sedan.

Adara simply stared out of the window next to her, ignoring the presence of her father entirely. 

“Young lady, I expect you to look at me when I am talking to you. Do not make me--”

“Don’t make you what?!” Adara’s head spun around, a tidal wave of lazy auburn curls rushing around her face at the sudden movement. She brushed the errant strands away with an impatient flick of her wrist. “Stop pretending that you actually care!”

“Might we shelve the vitriol for just a moment?”

Adara’s eyes narrowed and her arms crossed over her chest, but she said nothing.

“Why are you so angry with me?” He truly was at a loss. The last time he’d seen her, she’d screamed how much she hated him as he’d delivered her back to the school, but he’d chalked that up to a petulant child who hadn’t gotten away with something rather than actual truth.

“The fact that you don’t know just makes it all the worse,” Adara told him tearfully, turning back to look out the window. “Just take me back to the school...that’s what you always do anyways.”

Though the car was already headed in the direction of Mycroft’s home, Mycroft pointedly leaned forward, speaking clearly. “Home.”

When he sat back, he could see Adara looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Anthea will have prepared your room and asked the cook to fix you a meal. I trust you will not be running away again tonight?”

“You’re not taking me back to school?” She asked in complete disbelief. 

“You clearly do not wish to be there, so no. Not until we have discussed this matter to my satisfaction. And not before I have a few words with your governors. I’d like to know why I have not yet received a call notifying me that you are unaccounted for.”

“They won’t figure it out until morning, at least.” Adara smirked, pleased with herself. Mycroft gave her a reproachful look. “You said it yourself--I may only be fourteen, but I am still a Holmes...even if it’s only by genetics.”

The remainder of the ride was spent in silence. Mycroft didn’t dare look at the time when the car finally arrived at his home. Adara was already out of the car and halfway to the front door before Mycroft unfolded himself from the back seat. Anthea met the two of them at the door, taking Adara’s pack before directing her to the dining room. 

“I’ve moved your appointments around tomorrow to allow you more time in the morning,” Anthea informed Mycroft. “Your first appointment will be at 10 o’clock.”

“And Adara?”

“She will be supervised in your absence. The school has been contacted, and will be awaiting your call in the morning.”

Mycroft nodded his thanks before placing his umbrella in the stand next to the door. Anthea was already headed up the stairs to take Adara’s bag to her room. Mycroft knew she would leave shortly after. He made his way to the dining room where Adara was eating a light supper of a sandwich and fruit. 

“When you’ve finished, you will go up to bed. You are not to leave this house tomorrow without my approval. Is that clear?”

“If you wanted me to feel like a criminal, you could have just left me at Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft sighed, “This is not a game, Adara. You are not on holiday. While you are under my roof, you will obey my rules, or I will take you back to Badminton and hire a guard who will not let you out of his sight until you are of legal age. Now. I will ask again… Is. That. Clear?”

“Crystal, _sir_.” Adara spat, pushing away from the table and her half-eaten meal. Brushing past Mycroft, Adara stomped up the stairs to her room, where she slammed the door. 

Mycroft looked at the unfinished sandwich on the table for a long moment before he sat in Adara’s place and took a bite, mulling over the events of the last few hours, and wondering exactly why Adara had run away again. She had indicated he should know, but Mycroft was more than at a loss as to the reasons. 

Her anger towards him was so intense he could almost feel it radiating off of her through the walls and the ceiling. Why on earth was she so cross with him? He provided for her the best of his capabilities, she was getting a fine education at Badminton School for Girls, he made sure she had money for anything she might need. What was he missing?

By the time he’d finished the sandwich and berries, Mycroft was no closer to understanding his daughter than a whale could understand its purpose in life. His exhaustion had reached a record low, and the mere thought of taking himself up to bed was doing him in. The situation with Adara would simply have to keep until he’d rested.

As he trudged up the stairs, he gently rapped a knuckle on Adara’s closed door. No reply came, so Mycroft turned the knob and pushed the door in. The lights were off, but the blue light of the moon filtered through the sheer curtains, allowing him to see Adara tucked under the covers. Whether she was asleep, or merely pretending to be to avoid speaking to him, he didn’t know and didn’t wish to find out.

Pulling the door to until it latched, Mycroft continued on to his own room. He took care in removing his suit, hanging it up and leaving it on the side of the closet that would be collected for cleaning. After pulling on his pajamas, Mycroft slid into bed and was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

TBC


	2. Broken Wings and Broken Hearts

Dawn seemed to come much earlier than usual, spilling its Earl Grey light in through the curtains. It wouldn’t have mattered if Mycroft had only gone to bed an hour ago; his internal clock was wired to rouse him precisely at 7 o’clock if his alarm clock didn’t wake him first. 

“Good Lord…” he groaned as he sat up and planted his feet into the plush fibers of the rug. The events of the previous day were still hanging over him like a cloud, making him feel as though he’d barely even had a wink of sleep. What he might give for the luxury of staying in bed, if only for a few more hours. Alas, the sooner he got on with his day, the better. 

With a deep breath, Mycroft pulled himself to his feet and stretched, listening to the pops and cracks and creaks of his joints as his tired old bones readjusted into proper alignment. 

After a shower and a shave, Mycroft felt slightly more refreshed and headed down to the dining room for breakfast. Even before he set foot into the room, he could hear the sound of his daughter’s laughter, and he paused outside the door. He couldn’t remember ever hearing the girl laugh before. 

Pushing the door open, Mycroft found his daughter seated at the table in her pajamas with a large stack of misshapen pancakes. Across from her was Detective Inspector Lestrade. Both parties looked up at him. Adara’s smile evaporated, but Lestrade’s never faltered.

“Morning, Mycroft.”

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft acknowledged with a disquisitive tone as he rounded the table to his spot at the head. “I wasn’t aware Scotland Yard was making house calls these days. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“He was bringing my jumper to me,” Adara informed him before Lestrade could answer.

“She’d left it in my car,” Lestrade confirmed. “Figured I’d drop it off before I head in this morning.”

“Very thoughtful of you; however, you needn’t have gone out of your way.”

“It was no trouble.” Rising from the table, Lestrade shrugged into his suit coat, looking at Adara. “You keep your nose clean; I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” He gave the girl a wink.

“Thank you for the breakfast, Inspector Lestrade.”

“Breakfast?” Mycroft’s brows furrowed in confusion. What exactly had transpired whilst he’d slumbered?

“You were asleep and the only thing I could find was Muesli.” Adara’s face crinkled with disgust. “I don’t understand Muesli, or why people would want to eat it.”

“It’s good for you; what else is there to understand about it?”

“It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not quite cereal and it’s not quite porridge, so...what _is_ it?”

The first halfway civil conversation Mycroft was having with his daughter in four years, and they were arguing about Muesli. “Eat your pancakes,” he told her, rising from the table and gesturing Lestrade towards the door.

As the two reached the foyer, Lestrade turned to face Mycroft. “You have a very bright daughter, Mycroft. You should be proud of her.”

The elder man was slightly taken aback by the comment. “Of course I’m proud of her.”

“Does she know that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “From one father to another...talk to your daughter.”

“Not that it is any of your business, but I have tried. All I’m met with is anger over something she won’t tell me of. Apparently I’m supposed to just know what she’s upset about.”

Placing a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and meeting the other man’s gaze, the inspector’s tone was warm and compassionate. “Keep trying.”

If the physical touch wasn’t disconcerting enough, the intensity of the gaze certainly was and Mycroft took a step back. “Good day, Inspector.”

He stood alone in the foyer for several moments upon Lestrade’s departure, mulling over what the inspector had said. It had been so long since he’d had to deal with an obstinate teenager, that he wasn’t sure he still had the patience to endure their mood swings and hormonal outbursts. Then again, Sherlock had never quite grown out of that phase and Mycroft endured that on a seemingly unending basis. 

Returning to the dining room, Mycroft found Adara tucking into her breakfast. At his place, was a plate of pancakes and a cup of tea. Mycroft could feel the pounds packing onto his midsection just looking at the heavy breakfast, but Adara was watching him closely. If this was a peace offering, he wasn’t about to snub his daughter by refusing the breakfast. He sat down and, with an inward sigh, began to drizzle maple syrup across the hotcakes.

“I trust you slept well?” Mycroft queried, hoping to start off on neutral ground.

“I guess,” Adara shrugged noncommittally. 

“What do you plan to do today?”

“Am I allowed to do anything besides stay in my room?”

Mycroft gave Adara a reproachful look before he took a bite of the pancakes. The taste surprised him almost more than the fact that Lestrade had been the one to make them. A man of hidden talents, it seemed. After his second bite, Mycroft laid his knife and fork down and wiped his mouth.

“Adara, you may not like it any more than I do, but we do need to discuss this situation and come to an agreeable resolution.”

“The only thing you’ll find ‘agreeable’ is sending me away again!” 

“What are you talking about? I have never sent you away.”

“You shipped me off to school when I was three!” Adara’s voice was becoming shrill, her hands clenched into fists on the tabletop. 

“Is that what you think I did? Sent you to school because I didn’t want you here?”

Tears filled his daughter’s eyes and she looked away as they spilled down her cheeks. “It’s true. The first chance you got, you sent me away, and you stopped coming back for me.”

The pain and anger in her voice chipped at the ice that encased his heart. “Adara…” She remained turned away from him, but he could hear her quiet sniffles. “Look at me.”

For a moment, she stay resolutely turned away from him, but slowly she turned her head until their eyes met. She had his eyes, but--blessedly--the rest of her was a reflection of her mother. 

“I didn’t send you to school to be rid of you, or because I didn’t want you. I sent you there…” he paused, drawing in a deep breath as he debated how much history she needed to know. “...to keep you safe.”

He watched her brows furrow, her head cocking slightly to the side. “To keep me safe? I don’t understand. Safe from what?”

“What line of work do you think I am in, Adara?”

“You work for the Queen...or Parliament...or something.” 

“More of the ‘or something,’” Mycroft confirmed before taking a sip of tea to wet his throat. “I’m sure you’ve heard of MI6? The Secret Intelligence Service?”

“Like James Bond?” Adara was listening with rapt interest now.

“Less Hollywood than Bond, but yes. The agents of MI6, and their supervisors, answer to me. There are very few outside of the organization I work for who know my exact title and position. I work very hard to keep it that way, to protect them as well as myself.”

“Because you’re afraid people will get hurt if they know what is it you really do?”

“Precisely. It’s the reason why you have your mother’s name, and why I’ve sent you to the school in Bristol.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“The less you know, child, the safer you are. You have to simply trust me.”

“But...if no one even knows you have a daughter, then why couldn’t you at least have told _me?!_ It’s not like I would have said anything to anyone anyways! Who would have even believed me?”

“It isn’t that simple. You don’t understand the way things are in the world. Information is more valuable than gold. If my enemies were to ever find out about you, I would be compromised and Britain would be at risk.”

“So England is more important to you than I am.” The tears were there again, but before Mycroft could counter her argument, she was pushing away from the table. “Well, don’t let me keep you from protecting a _country_. I’ll just keep myself locked away in my room where no one will find me because _they don’t even know I exist!_ ”

As Adara left the room in a fit of teenage angst, Mycroft could almost imagine the girl’s mother sitting across from him, quietly sipping tea. In his mind, he could hear the amusement in her voice as she told him, “She is very much your child.”

“What I wouldn’t give to have you here,” he murmured to the empty chair before rising to his feet. “You would have been far better at this than me.” 

Ascending the stairs, Mycroft stood in front of Adara’s door for a moment before tapping on it lightly with his knuckle. 

“Go away!” Came the angry, tearful reply.

“Adara, try to understand, everything I do is to protect you; to keep you safe. It’s all your mother and I have ever tried to do for you.”

There was a long silence before the door opened. Adara’s face was wet with tears as she looked up at him. “You told me my mother died giving birth to me.”

“I...lied.” Mycroft admitted, hurrying to add, “To protect you!”

“What else is a lie!? You tell me to trust you, but how can I? Everything I know about you, about my mother, is nothing but lies! Is she even really dead?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answered with some effort, moving past the girl into her room and looking out the window. “You were only a few days old when it happened. Your mother and I were agents at MI6 at the time, working deep undercover in Kazakhstan trying to infiltrate the national government so that we could gain access to information only known to the Shanghai Six.”

“What’s the Shanghai Six?” Adara asked, her demeanor calm once again.

Mycroft turned to see her seated on her bed, clutching a pillow to her chest. He moved to sit beside her. “The Shanghai Six is the colloquial name of an international organisation known as the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation. They’re a bit like NATO or the European Union, founded on the principles of international cooperation and intelligence sharing. The difference is that the nations who are part of the Shanghai Six want to counterbalance the activities of NATO within Central Asia.” 

He didn’t want to delve into other theories and intel that had been the basis of their mission back in the summer of 2001. Theories of global domination that intelligence had seemed to be gathering more and more evidence on, even to present day, so he focused instead on the pertinent information. 

“Our job was to gather intelligence on their military plans. In order to blend into their society, we needed to play our parts without exception. We spoke only Russian, though we were versed in Kazakh as well. We observed the practices of the Muslim faith. We ate and drank and lived as if we had lived there our entire lives. Perhaps the one thing we forgot to account for in our training was the percent of alcohol by volume. What other countries export is often much weaker than the alcohol they imbibe at home or at gatherings. This...error in judgement led to...well, you.”

Adara’s face pinched into a look of disgust and she visibly shuddered. “Please do _not_ give me the details of that.”

“I have no desire...or memory of the event...to do so,” he assured her before continuing. “Having a child in the field is strictly against protocol, but your mother believed the greater risk would be to abort the mission. She believed we would have our intel well before you were born. It was in the last few months of her pregnancy that we became compromised in our mission. Somehow in all the chaos of 9/11 and the ensuing war on Afghanistan, MI6 and the CIA had both been infiltrated by a mole, and terrorists groups around the world became privy to all the agents currently in the field. Thankfully their security clearance was not high enough to gain access to our personnel files, or neither of us would be sitting here right now.”

“What happened then?”

“We aborted the mission. Standard Operating Procedure for any agents in the field who must abandon their mission is to go to the nearest Safe House and wait for instruction or evacuation. With the security breach, your mother and I knew that if we followed S.O.P., we would likely be ambushed and killed at any safe house in our near vicinity. We destroyed all evidence we had of our assumed identities--falsified papers, passports. The problem is that we did not have access to our own real papers that would get us home. We could have found someone to falsify new documents for us, but that would be taking a risk, as well. Field agents are trained to survive with only the clothes on their back in dire circumstances, but not when they are nearly full-term in their pregnancy.”

Mycroft paused for a moment. It had been a very long time since he had thought about the events leading up to Adara’s birth. Not knowing who to trust, looking over their shoulder more than they might have done under normal circumstances. No resources, and thousands of miles of hostile lands between them and home. They did whatever was necessary in the name of survival. 

“We went east rather than west, figuring that anyone looking for us would assume we would take the most direct route to get home. Thankfully, we stumbled upon a hostel in a small town just on the border between Russia and Mongolia. It was there that your mother went into labour.”

That had been a harrowing experience in itself. They had dared not to risk going to a doctor or trying to move onto a town with a hospital. Too many questions would be asked, reports would be made...it wasn’t safe for them or the baby. It was 11 hours of excruciating hell for both of them as Mycroft had to deliver the baby without assistance or proper training. He’d never dared to imagine what they would have done if there had been a complication with the delivery. The situation had been complicated enough for him. 

“After a few days, we knew we had to move on. We were only a few hundred miles from a Safe House in Yaruu, but getting there was...difficult. You stopped feeding, your mother was weak from labour and delivery, she needed medical attention--she was still bleeding from the birth. We hadn’t been in contact with HQ in weeks, so we had no idea what our status was or how quickly an evac could even be arranged. Reaching the Safe House was like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. We knew we weren’t home free, yet, but we were close. Once HQ knew that a child was involved, our extraction became Priority One, but it was still going to take several hours to get us out. Your mother had gone to rest in one of the bunk rooms. The agent at the Safe House had fresh goat's milk, so we filled a surgical glove with milk, poked a hole in the tip of a finger, and--thankfully--you began to eat. An hour before the extraction was to happen, I went in to wake your mother…”

The images flooded to Mycroft’s mind. She had looked so peaceful that he had hated to awaken her, but they needed to get to the evacuation site to meet their extraction team. Mycroft had gently called her name from the doorway, but she hadn’t stirred. As he moved closer, he could feel a sense of dread come over him. He could see that her chest was still, and there was a tinge of blue to her lips. He placed his fingers against the pulse point in her neck. Her skin was cold and there was no pulse. 

“Sometimes I think she held on just long enough to get you to safety.” A sad smile crossed his face as he stared at some invisible spot on the floor in front of him. “She was the one that insisted we call you Adara. It means Fire. She thought it fitting considering you were born ‘under fire,’ so to speak. I made the decision to have your legal surname be Orrington...to honour Aggie.”

Adara was silent, sitting with her knees pulled up under her chin. A single tear was rolling down her cheek. “Did you love her...my mum?”

“Yes.” The answer was barely a breath of a whisper as Mycroft closed his eyes, imagining her smile. “Though, I didn’t realise it until it was too late.” Idly, he twisted the gold ring on his right hand, for a moment getting lost in his own thoughts and memories. 

“Can I…” Adara paused, taking a deep breath and placing a hand on Mycroft’s forearm, and looking at him with a pleading expression. “Can I come live with you? I don’t want to go back to Badminton. Please, Father?”

Mycroft shook his head, slightly bewildered by the question. Hadn’t the girl heard anything he’d said? “It is not safe with me. The safest place for you is school.” He saw the angry tears welling up in her eyes before the dam broke and they flooded her face. He knew he was breaking the girl’s heart, but he simply couldn’t take the risk. “I _am_ sorry, Adara.”

“Just go,” Adara cried. 

Though he was reluctant, Mycroft did have work to attend to, and he saw no point in arguing the matter further or trying to find some way to appease her. He rose from the bed, making his way to the door. He paused at the threshold, but didn’t turn to face her fully. “I am doing the best that I can. I have always done what I thought was best for you.”

“Your ‘best’ isn’t good enough anymore.” Her voice shook at the biting words, but they still managed to sting him as he made his exit. 

TBC


	3. Pecking Order

Parenting, Mycroft mused as the car delivered him to his office, was one of those things that was just supposed to come naturally to people. Humans had been having babies for thousands of years. Even his own parents had managed to raise three spawns, although Mycroft and his siblings could argue a good case for everything their parents had done wrong in doing so. However, if parenting was supposed to be so natural and easy for others, why was it so difficult for him? 

As Adara had grown, Mycroft expected she would become more reasonable, more logical--the way he’d been--but the girl seemed to lack reason in abundance. Naturally she was smart, but he feared her stubbornness might just be the death of him one day. What was so wrong with the school that she didn’t want to go back? Other than the governors’ inability to keep a watchful eye on their charges, Badminton was one of the top boarding schools in Britain. She was getting a fine education, chances were she’d be accepted at any university she desired--or he’d pull strings to get her there--why on earth would she want so badly to live at home?

Shelving the perplexity caused by his daughter, Mycroft turned his thoughts to more important matters: National Security. Today he was scheduled to meet with the chief officer of the British Transport Police metal theft division. Copper cable theft in the United Kingdom was an epidemic that was costing the crown millions of pounds every year. The thefts were knocking out power to motorways, homes, hospitals. It was causing signal failures and outages for train services…In short, not only was it dangerous and expensive, it was ignominious trying to explain to the Cabinet and Prime Minister why it was still happening. 

He listened to the briefing with a bored expression set into his features. It was the same song and dance he’d heard six months ago when he’d tasked the chief to put a stop to this theft by any means necessary. “Forgive me, Chief Stepney, but by the sound of your report...you’ve made no headway.”

The chief was silent for a moment before responding. “Apologies, Mr. Holmes. It isn’t just London that’s affected by the theft. The whole of England is--”

“I’m well aware of the extent of the problem,” Mycroft interrupted coldly. “The Prime Minister is well aware of the extent of the problem. Her Majesty, The Queen, is well aware of the extent of the problem. What we fail to understand, Chief, is why there has been such little progress in resolving this since you and I last met in October.”

Again the chief was struck into silence.

“If you’re incapable of getting this situation under control, Chief, I’m sure that--”

“We will crack down even harder, Mr. Holmes. I assure you, you won’t be disappointed again.”

“Oh, I assure _you_ , Chief Stepney...I will not be.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Mycroft let the man scuttle away to decide on his own how to interpret that last statement. There was already a plan in place by MI13 if significant progress was not seen by a certain time. The clock was ticking, whether Stepney and his men knew it or not. 

Before his next meeting of the day, Mycroft checked in for a progress report on the matter he’d been handling the previous night. Picking up the red phone in his office, he punched in a number that he knew by heart, and waited for the person on the other end of the line to pick up. 

“Put me through to Sherrinford.” 

There was the usual hold while the line was transferred to the secure facility, and Mycroft felt the cold tendrils of uneasiness seep into his veins as recent memories began to swim to the surface. 

“Mr. Holmes.” The new governor of Sherrinford greeted Mycroft with neutrality.

“Mr. Prosser.” Mycroft returned the greeting. “An update, if you don’t mind?”

“There have been no further incidents, sir. Eurus is secure.”

“And the guard she...assaulted?” 

There was a hesitation before the man answered. “Alive...for now. His prognosis is not good.”

“I warned you, Mr. Prosser, what my sister is capable of. You were briefed on the breech under your predecessor. You were given strict orders in regards to her security protocols. She is to have contact with no one outside of my family. I will not have more deaths on my conscience because you refused to obey orders.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Holmes, but...perhaps we may need to consider transferring your sister to another facility.”

“Sherrinford is the most secure facility in the world, Mr. Prosser. Are you saying you are incapable of doing your job?”

“Frankly, what I’m saying, sir, is that--unlike my predecessor--I am not willing to risk the safety and lives of the men who work for me. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft was unaccustomed to people hanging up on him. Very few people had ever dared to do so. Apparently this man did not understand his place in the scheme of things just yet. Before he could dwell too much on the subject, he felt his mobile buzzing against his chest and reached into the inner pocket to retrieve it. The display read Scotland Yard, and Mycroft could feel a migraine brewing even before he accepted the call.

“Yes, Inspector, what is it now?”

“Quick question.”

“Go on,” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Where should your daughter be right now?”

“Apparently not wherever she currently is, if your call is any indication. She _should_ be home under the watchful eye of my assistant.”

“Thought so,” Lestrade sounded almost amused. “She’s at Baker Street with your brother, playing with little Rosie.”

“Yes, of course she is,” Mycroft’s tone was sardonic, his mood continuing to sour with each new problem that developed through the day. “I suppose I should give her credit for not turning up at another crime scene.”

“Listen, this weekend is my weekend with Emily. She’s been begging me to take her to the Harry Potter Studio...why don’t I take Adara with us? It might be good for her to go and do something fun, and it will keep her out of your hair for a little while.”

“Thank you, but that is really not necessary. Besides, it’s my intention to return her to the school this weekend.”

“So then you two have settled matters?”

“We spoke this morning. I told her she will return to school.”

“Blimey, you really don’t know anything about kids, do you?”

“Adara is not a child--”

“No, she’s a teenager, which is even worse than a kid. Do me a favour, Mycroft.”

“Is this another parenting tip, Inspector?” Mycroft interrupted.

“I doubt staying out of school until the end of next week is going to set her back much.”

“Encouraging truancy now?”

“Sod it, I’d have better luck teaching maths to a dog than trying to help you with your daughter.”

Mycroft could hear the exasperation in the other man’s voice, and knew that Lestrade was seconds away from hanging up on him and giving up altogether. Mycroft warred himself internally. He was doing the best he knew how with Adara. Accepting Lestrade’s advice or assistance would be admitting his failure as a father. After the recent events with Eurus, Mycroft wasn’t sure his pride could withstand much more humiliation. 

The visage of Adara’s mother appeared in the chair across from his desk, disapproval and reproach set in her soft features. 

Mycroft closed his eyes and swallowed his pride like a mouthful of acid. “Gregory…” he said to keep the other man from hanging up. “I’m listening.” 

When the call with Lestrade finally ended, Mycroft had just enough time to call Anthea and berate her for letting Adara slip out from under her nose. To her credit, Anthea didn’t try to make excuses or snivel, she simply said “Shit,” and offered to go retrieve the girl from Sherlock’s flat.

“Nevermind that,” he told her impatiently. “I’ll get her myself after my next meeting. I need you to clear my schedule until Monday. Do you think you can manage _that_?”

He knew he couldn’t blame Anthea for Adara giving her the slip. She’d been doing this disappearing act all her life. If she could escape unnoticed from her governors at school multiple times through the years, she could certain escape from Anthea. 

Per his agreement with Lestrade, Mycroft held off on phoning the school, at least until Monday. Tomorrow was Friday, and he would spend the day with his daughter. Lestrade had insisted on getting an extra ticket for Adara on Saturday, leaving Mycroft no room to refuse. He had no idea if his daughter even knew what Harry Potter was, let alone if she cared for it. He himself only had a vague notion of what it was. 

Just as Mycroft was putting himself back in order--rebuttoning the top button of his collar and slipping his tie back into place--there was a knock on his office door. His next appointment had arrived.

“Come in,” he called, rising out of courtesy. He gave a polite smile, nodding his head in greeting to the tall, slender woman who entered, and watching as she closed the door behind her. “Lady Smallwood.”

“Mycroft,” she gave him a coy smile, shrugging out of her jacket and hanging it up on the rack in the corner. “Do you have an update on yesterday’s incident?”

Mycroft lowered himself back into his chair as Lady Smallwood poured herself a drink. “Sherrinford may no longer be an option for containing Eurus. The new governor does not seem as...compelled...to follow protocol as David did.”

“Give him time to learn his place,” Lady Smallwood offered, taking a sip of brandy before setting the glass on the edge of Mycroft’s desk and moving around behind him. Her hands fell to his shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “You’re so tense. Let me help you relax.” 

Mycroft didn’t argue as Lady Smallwood began to slip his suit coat off his shoulders and down his arms. He watched her set it aside before she resumed rubbing his shoulders. She leaned down close to his ear, speaking in a soft voice. 

“If Mr. Prosser won’t do as he’s told, we will find someone else who will. You know you always have my support and resources...so long as I can continue counting on yours?”

“Yes, of course.” 

Her lips touched the shell of his ear as her hands slid over his chest. “I’m afraid I need more assurance than your word these days, Mycroft. You did, after all, have me escorted out and detained.”

“For which, I have thoroughly apologised, Alicia.”

The hands retracted from his chest and he felt his chair being turned. Lady Smallwood draped herself across his lap, the backs of her fingers trailing along his cheek. “It’s not your apology I want.”

Mycroft knew he had little choice but to give the woman what she now expected from him. He drew her in until their lips met, and allowed her to take from him what she desired. If sex was what was required to keep assurances, Mycroft would pay the toll. Keeping Eurus secure was far more important than balking at a few moments of physical intimacy. 

Once his debt had been paid, Mycroft straightened himself back out as Alicia reapplied her lipstick in his mirror. “You still haven’t called for that drink yet.”

“As you can see, I have had my hands full.”

“When you’re free, then.” She approached him and leaned up to peck him on the lips. “Leave Mr. Prosser to me, Mycroft. Sherrinford will remain secure, with Eurus.”

He watched the woman leave, listening to the receding sound of her heels clacking along the floor as she made her way to the lift at the end of the hall. Once he was certain she was gone, he pulled the pocket square from his suit coat and wiped the remnants of her lipstick from his mouth. 

The glass of brandy sat forgotten on the edge of his desk and he plucked it up, downing the contents in one gulp to wash away the lingering taste. He picked up the phone in his office and with the touch of one button, called for his car to be ready. As he left his office, Mycroft placed the empty glass on the service tray near the door. 

He didn’t phone ahead to Baker Street, mostly because he knew Sherlock wouldn’t answer, but also because he didn’t want his daughter running off again before he could get there. When the car pulled up at the curb in front of 221B Baker Street, Mycroft estimated this house call would take a little more time than his usual visits to his brother’s flat.

“You might as well get yourself a coffee while you wait,” he told the driver before slipping out of the car.

Straightening the knocker, Mycroft pushed the bell for Mrs. Hudson’s flat, knowing he’d be standing on the pavement for the rest of the day if he’d tried to ring Sherlock’s directly. When the door opened, the elder landlady gave a smug smile. “Sherlock predicted you would have been here an hour ago. You’re getting slow and stupid, Mycroft Holmes.”

“I had business to attend to, Mrs. Hudson. Not that it is any of yours.” He started to move inside, but the woman blocked his entry with her arm. 

“If you mistreat that girl, so help me, Mycroft…”

Mycroft was perplexed. Why on earth would anyone think Adara was mistreated? “She is my daughter, Mrs. Hudson.” 

“That’s punishment enough.” The woman finally stepped aside, and Mycroft moved passed her, controlling the urge to tell her to go find one of her herbal soothers and bugger off. There was no noise coming from the upstairs flat as Mycroft ascended the stairs, but--as usual--the door stood open. As he came to the threshold, he could see Sherlock in his usual armchair with Adara across from him in John’s. She was bent over something on the table between them, long waves of auburn hair obscuring his view until she leaned back, holding a pair of tweezers with a small white piece pinched between the ends.

“Ha!” She exclaimed, holding it out in mockery at Sherlock.

“You’re much better at this than your father,” Sherlock told her, his eyes shifting to Mycroft, lips curling ever so slightly. 

Mycroft could see now that the two were playing Operation. “I thought I told you not to leave the house,” he said to his daughter, coming to stand in the middle of the room and leaning on his umbrella.

“Actually, no, you didn’t. You asked me what my plans were for the day. You never told me I had to stay home.”

Mycroft recalled the conversation, realizing the girl was right. “I assumed it was implied.”

“Oh, come now, Mycroft. You should never assume anything.” Sherlock teased.

“It’s makes an ass out of you and me,” Adara smirked, looking at her uncle.

Mycroft felt his face twitch in annoyance as he looked at his brother. “This is your influence, is it?”

Sherlock pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed Adara a £20 note. “The diner downstairs has good chips--not the best chips, but they’ll do. Your _dad_ and I need a chat.”

As Adara started to leave the flat, Mycroft spoke up. “Do not leave that diner, young lady.”

Whether or not she heard him and intended to follow his order remained unseen as she swept out of the room, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock alone. Sherlock resumed the game he’d been playing with Adara, leaving Mycroft little choice but to sit down in John’s chair and join him.

“You’ve been busy, brother mine.” Sherlock goaded as he selected a piece to remove from the game board. “Clair De La Lune… A visit with Lady Smallwood?”

Mycroft discreetly sniffed his jacket, smelling the fragrance that lingered from his encounter. “A matter arose that required her assistance.”

Sherlock’s eyes lifted to his brother, the gleam in them telling Mycroft that he’d unintentionally slipped more than a hint of innuendo into that statement. “Sherrinford’s new governor is failing to cooperate with our protocols. Another man was nearly killed yesterday.”

“I’ll go visit her,” Sherlock said with seriousness. 

“We’re teaching her to act out anytime one of us doesn’t make a regular visit.”

“We’re family, Mycroft. Family should always come first.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Speaking of...When do you intend to tell our parents about Adara? Given recent events, I’d say it’s high time they met their granddaughter.”

“You know why I can’t do that, Sherlock.”

“Oh, stop it. She’s a child, Mycroft, not a national secret.”

“She’s _my_ child, Sherlock. Hiding her identity keeps her safe from people like--” He stopped, not able to bring himself from naming his sister as one of his biggest threats.

“What did Eurus do you, Mycroft? I know now what she did to me, to my friend; but what did she do to you that has you so terrified of her?”

“It isn’t just her I’m trying to protect Adara from. I have enemies, Sherlock. Enemies worse that Magnussen, worse than Moriarty, worse, even, than our sister.”

“So she’s paying for your mistakes,” Sherlock countered. “Sent away to boarding school, doesn’t know her grandparents on either side, barely knows her uncle or her own father. Can’t imagine why should would keep running away.”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Mummy was right. Your best really isn’t good enough.”

The words cut deeper than Mycroft thought possible. He folded his hands on the crook of his umbrella and leaned his chin on top. “I’m receiving unsolicited advice from Inspector Lestrade, I might as well receive it from you… What do you suggest I do?”

“Stop being Big Brother and start being her father.”

The sound of a baby crying emanated from a monitor on the mantle, drawing Mycroft’s attention away from Sherlock. 

“Speaking of fathers...if you’ll excuse me.”

Both men rose, Sherlock heading towards the door ahead of Mycroft. “Curious, isn’t it?”

Sherlock paused on the first step leading up to the room above his that had been converted into a nursery for the times Rosie stayed at Baker Street. “What is?”

“That, even though, I’ve had many more years of experience, you’d still turn out to be a better parent.” 

“Well, I have always been the more grown up one,” Sherlock smirked, unable to resist one last teasing jab at his older brother. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and descended the stairs to the front door without so much as a backwards glance. 

As he reached the pavement, he took a deep breath and slowly let it out before turning to his left and entering the diner. He spotted his driver along the back wall, a cup of coffee in front of him as he read the Evening Standard. Adara was seated at a table where a large plate of chips was being delivered. He moved towards the table, and stood behind the empty chair across from his daughter.

“May I join you?” 

Adara seemed to be sizing him up. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.” He answered calmly.

Her brows rose a fraction in surprise before she answered him. “Okay.”

When Mycroft was settled, Adara nudged the plate of chips into the middle of the table, silently offering to share. She was watching Mycroft closely, observing his responses. With both Lestrade and Sherlock’s running commentary in his head, he picked up a hot chip and took a bite, for once trying to do better than his best as he verbally reached out to his daughter. “Tell me about your day.”


	4. A Different Tune

London through the eyes of a teenage girl was almost refreshing, albeit innocently naive. Mycroft had agreed to take Adara anywhere she wanted to go in the city, and the girl had certainly taken him up on the offer. The only thing he had declined was taking her to meet the Queen. They had watched the Changing of the Guard at the Palace, visited the Royal Mews, and walked the grounds of the Tower of London. He’d taken her along the south bank to Shakespeare’s Globe, and they had taken a turn on the London Eye. It had been a full day of all that London had to offer, and Adara actually seemed interested in the history of certain places as Mycroft told her stories of past kings and queens. 

“Can I see where you work?” Adara asked as they walked across Westminster Bridge from the south bank towards the Elizabeth Tower.

“Not today.” Very few people were privy to Adara’s existence, bringing her in with him would raise questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Thankfully, she didn’t push the matter. 

“Can we go to Scotland Yard? I want to see if Inspector Lestrade has made progress on his case.”

“I’m sure the Inspector is quite busy, Adara.”

“You said we could go anywhere in the city,” Adara stopped and crossed her arms, pinning Mycroft with a challenging look. “Your work or Scotland Yard.”

“Scotland Yard it is.” He yielded, taking out his mobile and sending a brief text to Lestrade, asking him to meet them outside if he wasn’t too busy. Mycroft wasn’t in the habit of texting often--avoiding it as much as possible--but the noise and people of the city made him too uneasy to phone the Inspector.

Adara managed to convince Mycroft to take the Tube from Westminster to St. James’s Park. He couldn’t remember the last time he had used public transportation, and it was an experience he didn’t want to repeat anytime in the near future. The Underground was filthy and stifling, throngs of people waiting on the platform for the next train to arrive, and even more people crammed into the carriages. He didn’t dare sit, not wanting to guess at what had been on those seat cushions, and took a handkerchief from his pocket to use as a barrier between his hand and the pole he used to keep his balance.

Mercifully, the journey between stations only took a minute, and they emerged unscathed onto Broadway Street, across from the iconic revolving sign of the New Scotland Yard. 

Lestrade was waiting for them, and grinned as they approached. “Not sure I’ve ever seen you without a tie,” he razzed as he took in Mycroft’s white button down shirt layered beneath a heather grey cashmere jumper, and paired with casual dark slacks and brown brogue boots, all topped by a long black peacoat. Lestrade’s gaze then turned to Adara and his smile widened. “Having a nice time with your dad?”

She nodded, smiling back at the inspector. “We’ve been everywhere today. Except where he works, and he wouldn’t let me meet the Queen.”

“I don’t think the Queen is ready for you,” Mycroft countered. “She was hoping, if you have the time, of course, that you might show her around The Yard.”

“I want to talk to you about the murder from the other night.” Adara interjected. 

“Really? Good. I’d like to talk to you about the case as well. Well, as much as I _can_ do.” He motioned for them to follow, leading them in through an employee entrance. “You’ll be happy to hear we found traces of DNA at the scene. They matched a suspect in our database. White male, 28 years old, left handed. How’d you know he’d be left handed?”

“The direction of the cuts, and the blood splatter,” Adara told him, as if it were obvious. 

“Have you ever considered working in forensics? Scotland Yard could use someone like you.”

She beamed at the compliment, falling into step beside him as he resumed walking. “So, you’ve caught the killer?”

“Not yet,” Lestrade admitted. “But we have a couple of teams staking out his flat and trying to flush him out of hiding.” 

Adara seemed appeased by this break in the case, and allowed Lestrade to give her a guided tour of the station--at least the areas where he was allowed to take her. The last place he took her was down to the labs were the forensic teams did their magic. Jasmine Hatman was on duty in the lab, looking at slides on the microscope when the three entered the room. Her head popped up from the eye pieces, purple-framed specs sliding down from her forehead back into place on the bridge of her nose.

“Oi, Jazz. Like you to meet a friend of mine,” Lestrade put his hand on Adara’s shoulder, leading her into the room. “This is Adara Orrington. She’s in London for a few days, and seems to have a natural knack for forensics. Would you might giving her a bit of a preview of what it’s like working down here?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Jazz smiled.

“Take your time, love. Show her back up to my office when you’re done, yeah?”

“Don’t wander off,” Mycroft ordered his daughter before following Lestrade back out of the lab and down the hall to the lift. “Thank you for doing this. I apologise if we’re interrupting anything important.”

“Nah, just a bit of paperwork is all. I’m happy to do it. Seems like you two are getting on a bit better from the other night,” Lestrade intentionally left the statement open, giving the opportunity for Mycroft to talk. 

“Mm, yes. I suppose that is mostly due to your and Sherlock’s involvement.” Mycroft gave a sidelong glance at Lestrade before he continued speaking, somewhat hesitantly. “Might I ask you a personal question, Inspector?”

“Only if you stop calling me Inspector. We’ve known each other a long time, Mycroft. I think we’re a bit beyond titles.”

“Regardless...I am curious. You haven’t always had an easy relationship with your daughter, have you?”

“No, not at all.” Before he could continue, the lift dinged to signal they’d reached the floor that housed Lestrade’s office, and the doors parted to deposit them. They passed by the small kitchenette on their way to the office, pausing just long enough for Lestrade to offer Mycroft a cup of tea--which was graciously accepted--before finally reaching Lestrade’s office. He closed the door and turned the blinds to afford them a slight bit of privacy, then took a seat in his leather chair behind the desk. “You remember the night Emily was born, don’t you?”

“In vivid detail? No. As I recall, that was the night I asked you to raid my brother’s squalid little flat.”

“I was on my way to hospital when you stopped me. My wife--well, ex-wife now--was in labour, and you said if I didn’t help you I’d live to regret it.”

“Ah, yes. You had a few choice words for me, but you still chose to assist me.”

“And missed the birth of my daughter because of it.” Lestrade nodded. “Cynthia never forgave me for that...but that was just the start. I missed everything with Em--her first steps, her first words, school nativity plays at Christmas. My career was my priority. One day I woke up and realised that I had this gorgeous daughter I knew nothing about. I didn’t know her favourite colour, her favourite song, what her hobbies were...anything. I knew if I didn’t start trying to fix my relationship with her, that...well, I would always be her father, but I’d never be her dad.”

Mycroft realized that he was listening with rapt interest and tried to appear bored as he sipped his tea. “What did you do?”

“Took time to get to know her. On my days off, we’d go out and do something, or sit home watching telly or a film. I found out she was a footie fan like me, so we’d go and see the Arsenal matches at the Emirates Stadium.”

“How old was she when you...repaired your relationship with her?”

“Almost 10. It wasn’t fixed overnight. It took time and effort. She was angry at me for a long time--thinking I didn’t care about her--and there were times I think she intentionally acted out just to see if I’d give up on it all. Kids need to know they’re loved and wanted. My guess is that Adara isn’t much different.”

The words pulled Mycroft into an introspective silence, but the image that was brought to mind wasn’t of Adara, but rather of his sister Eurus. He had a sudden paralyzing fear that he would fail Adara the same way he had failed Eurus.

“What happened to Adara’s mum?” Lestrade pressed gently, his voice soft and empathetic.

Mycroft’s gaze lifted to meet the Inspector’s. For a long moment, he wasn’t sure he wanted to divulge the information to the other man, but before he realized it, he was speaking. “She died a few days after giving birth. The circumstances surrounding Adara’s conception and birth are classified; needless to say it was never meant to happen.”

“I hope that’s not the way you put it to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing’s worse than telling a kid they were never wanted.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t wanted,” Mycroft clarified. “I simply said it wasn’t meant to happen.” He paused, focusing on something only he could see. “I didn’t know how much I wanted her until she was there. She’s so like her mum. I didn’t know the first thing about raising a child alone. I hired nannies to help with her daily care--feeding, changing, bathing. I knew they could give her more attention and more affection than I was capable of, but that didn’t mean I didn’t love her.”

“You had the right intentions,” Lestrade agreed. “It’s instinct that drives us to provide the best care and protection for our children, but it’s involvement that really counts with them. When I was beat cop, I’d get called out on domestic cases. Husbands and wives going at each other. So many times there’d be small kids in the house. They’d be dirty, hungry, all sorts...but you know what they cared about more than anything in those moments?”

Mycroft raised his brows a fraction, waiting for the answer without venturing a guess.

“Their mum or dad. Didn’t matter if they hadn’t eaten that day, or if their nappie hadn’t been changed in god knows how long. It always came down to wanting to be with their parents, to know that everything was going to be alright and that they were safe.”

It was beginning to dawn on Mycroft that that could be why Adara was so adamant on coming to live with him. He still couldn’t quite grasp the why behind it all, but the picture was becoming clearer to him now. “Thank you, Inspector. You’ve given me much to consider.”

“Ah, what did I tell you about titles?”

The corners of Mycroft’s lips pulled ever so slightly as he regarded the other man with mild amusement. “Of course… Gregory.”

“Better; we’ll work on getting that down to just Greg.”

“That’s highly unlikely.” Mycroft countered as there was a knock at the door. He turned his head just as Adara pushed the door open.

“I want to be a parasitologist,” Adara announced proudly, carrying an 8x10 photograph to Mycroft and handing it to him.

“What am I looking at?”

“A parasite,” she told him. “ _Giardia lamblia_ , to be precise. Jazz took this picture from a slide on a microscope. She let me have it as a souvenir.” 

“Ah...How thoughtful of her.” Mycroft handed the picture back. “I think we’ve kept Inspector Lestrade long enough. Are you ready to leave?”

She nodded and looked over at Lestrade. “Thank you for giving me a tour and letting me see the lab.”

“It’s my pleasure. And I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Tomorrow?” Adara asked, crinkling her brow.

“I...hadn’t told her just yet.” Mycroft admitted.

“Tell me what?” She asked warily. 

“The Inspector has invited you to tour the...what was it?...Harry Potter studio?”

Adara looked to Lestrade for confirmation, a hopeful gleam in her eyes.

“Yeah. My daughter’s birthday is coming up pretty soon and she’s been hounding me to take her. Figured you might like to come along. It’s bound to be loads better than a crime scene.” 

“Are you coming, too?” Adara asked, turning her curious gaze at her father.

“Heavens, no--” Mycroft started to say, but was cut off by Lestrade.

“Of course he is.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Lestrade grinned, knowing Mycroft would loathe every minute of it. “Already bought the tickets.” He shrugged. “We’ll drop by yours around half seven in the morning?”

Mycroft gave a tight smile that looked more like a grimace, “Wonderful.”

As they made their way down to street level, Mycroft opted to call for a taxi rather than find himself on the Tube again. Adara studied him as they climbed into the back of the cab and drove off. “Why didn’t you tell me Inspector Lestrade wanted to take me to the studio tomorrow?”

“It wasn’t relevant to anything we’d discussed since he made the offer.”

“Do you even know anything about Harry Potter?”

“Beyond the fact that it’s a best-selling children’s book and, apparently, a popular film?” He paused, looking over at her. “No.”

Adara made a noise of disgust before leaning forward towards the driver. “Can you make a stop at the nearest Waterstones, please?”

The driver nodded his head in acknowledgement, and Mycroft furrowed his brow. “What are you doing?”

“Educating you.”

The cab carried them along Whitehall and around the Charles I traffic circle, veering onto Northumblerland Avenue before turning off onto Northumberland Street and coming to a stop. “This is as close as I can get you and wait, love.” The driver informed her. “Waterstones is right up at the end of this street on the corner by the Costa.”

“Wait here.” Adara instructed her father before she climbed out of the cab and jogged off towards the bookshop.  


“She your daughter, then?” The driver asked, looking back at Mycroft through the mirror.

He inhaled deeply to keep himself from making a biting comment about the obviousness of that statement. “Yes,” he answered simply, pointedly looking out the window to deter any further conversation.

In less than 10 minutes, Adara was back in the cab, thrusting a paperback book into her father’s hands. He looked down at the illustrated cover with distaste. “ _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_. I’m riveted already.”

Adara crossed her arms, giving him a haughty look. “You have a film reel called ‘Lady Be Bad’ and you want to mock Harry Potter?”

“I see you’ve made use of your time at home by rifling through my things.”

She said nothing as she continued to stare at him challengingly. 

He sighed, “Very well. I will endeavor to keep an open mind.”

When the two finally arrived home, Mycroft settled the fare and followed his daughter inside, watching as she made a beeline straight for the kitchen. Rarely was he home often enough to keep any sort of food stuffs stocked in the refrigerator or pantry, so he knew she wasn’t likely to find more than tea and biscuits...and Muesli. 

She sighed just as Mycroft crossed the threshold of the kitchen. “Do you ever eat?”

“From time to time,” he plucked a takeaway menu from the fridge and handed it to her. “Cooking requires far more patience than I typically have after a long day. I recommend the chicken curry.”

“Do you want anything?”

“Just tell them the order is for Mycroft Holmes and that I will have my usual, and order whatever you’d like. If you’ll excuse me, I should tend to my emails for a while.”

He left Adara to her own devices, retiring to his home office and pulling up the emails he’d missed during the day. Since he hadn’t received any calls during their outing, he supposed that his counterparts had managed to keep the world turning in his absence. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he should give them credit for that, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

As Mycroft was in the middle of replying to an email from a foreign diplomat, Adara gently rapped on the door. “The food’s just arrived.” 

“Mm. I’ll be down in a moment.” 

She turned and left, leaving Mycroft to finish his email, though distractedly. Spending the day with his daughter had been somewhat enlightening for him. It occurred to him that they hadn’t argued once the entire day. Overall, it had been rather pleasant. There was a part of him that wanted to grant Adara’s wish and let her remain home, but it still warred with the other part of him that feared what would happen if she did.

“Hiding her won’t keep her safe, Mycroft Holmes.”

Mycroft looked across the desk to see the visage of Adara’s mother seated in one of the chairs. It was beginning to unsettle him how often he was seeing and hearing her. He knew it was all in his mind, but that knowledge was even less comforting. Only the mad experienced hallucinations. 

“What do you suggest?”

“Go eat dinner and read the book.”

“I meant long term.” Was he really taking suggestions from a figment of his imagination?

“I know,” the ghostly smile only served to further perturb him and he closed his laptop before pushing away from the desk.

Once downstairs, he found Adara seated on the floor in the living room, rather than the dining room. There was a variety of takeaway boxes open on the coffee table, along with napkins and silverware. The book lay upon, what Mycroft assumed was, his plate.

“You want me to read while we eat?” 

“If we’re going to get through all of book one before tomorrow, yes.”

Mycroft gave in with a sigh, sitting himself on the sofa and picking up the book. He gave a cursory glance to the back cover, but decided not to read the overview. Adara served both of them a variety of the foods, but Mycroft simply took a sip of water as he opened the book.

“ _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , by J.K. Rowling. Illustrations by--oh, Lord...there are illustrations?”

“Hush,” she said, casting a soft glare at him. “Read.”

Mycroft lifted his eyebrow in disapproval, but returned his gaze to the page. “Illustrations by Mary Grandpré. Chapter One, The Boy Who Lived. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.’ Is the entire book going to be this excruciating to read?”

Adara shrugged, spearing a piece of chicken with her fork. “If you hate stories of children finding hope, friendship, and building their own family.” 

Mycroft looked at her curiously. “Is that why you like the book?”

Her cheeks tinged a soft pink and she looked down at her plate, moving her food around. "I just meant that's the theme of the series. The best parts of the book are when Harry gets troll bogies on his wand, or Hermione sneering at the boys about getting expelled, or Neville saying he'd fight his friends, or Snape on a broom or…” She stopped, her shoulders slumping as if in defeat. “I guess you’re right. It is just a silly children’s book... You...You don't have to keep reading if you don't want to..."

Mycroft felt his chest tighten uncomfortably as he watched his daughter go from animated and excited to sullen. He suddenly felt as if he’d just crushed the one thing she’d expressed any fondness for--aside from a parasite she’d seen in the lab at Scotland Yard. His mind flashed back to when he was her age and he’d been absolutely taken in by the bizarrely splendid madness of Lewis Carroll’s _Alice in Wonderland_. He’d identified with Alice in so many ways, and had often wondered what it would really be like if there was a place like Wonderland. 

His mother had taken the book away from him, telling him he was too old for children’s fantasy stories, and instead making him read professional journals and various newspapers. It had been the death of whatever imagination Mycroft had. 

He realized, grimly, that his commentary on the book in his hands was virtually doing to Adara what his mother had done to him. He’d be damned if he would be the one to kill her imagination. 

“‘Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.’” He began again with all seriousness. “‘They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense…’”


End file.
